Galen Watson's Blog: The Psalter - Posts Tagged "marcel-proust"

It was Pooh’s blustery day in Paris as I jogged toward the Seine. The leaves on trees that lined the boulevard rattled, and some sailed to the ground. They crackled underfoot as I tread on them. Autumn is a season of introspection, and I get contemplative this time of year. I crossed the Seine at the Pont d’Iéna, and made a right on the Avenue de New York. The Eagles’ Whatever Happened to Saturday Night played on my mp3 player.

Did you ever notice how a song can transport you into the past? That happens to me a lot. Marcel Proust wrote about it brilliantly in À la recherche du temps perdu (Looking for Lost Time) – although tea and cake were his time machine. As I passed the péniches (houseboats) moored to the quai, the Eagles’ song teleported me to Saturday nights in the late 1960s. I thought about high school dances after football and basketball games, and the hormone-charged social atmospere. School dances provided a romance-laced social setting, with everything kept proper by keen-eyed teachers who surveyed the crowd, watching for dirty dancing or illicit kisses.

Garage bands vied for gigs at junior and senior high school dances. In our little valley, a band called The Beethovens had achieved a bit of local fame. They even placed second in a Battle of the Bands in Hollywood. I had dreams of being a rocker in my early teens, and took drum lessons from their drummer, Rick Coonce, at the local music store. The lessons ended when Rick quit to form another band: The Grass Roots. Their hit, Midnight Confessions, rocked the late sixties and propelled the group into the national spotlight.

But like Woody Allen’s Midnight in Paris, I was transported once again to Normandy, four decades ago, and the bals de campagne. The bals were country dances in rural burgs during the summertime. Traveling carnivals were the thing in the sixties, and they crisscrossed the countryside, setting up their booths to hawk games of pseudo skill.

A carnival tent was erected in the town square, and on Friday and Saturday nights, bands played until after midnight--and even later if the crowd could coerce them. But it was a different dance scene from high school soirées in the states. Accordion groups played traditional music for the older set, and alternated every three or four songs with a rock band for teenagers and young adults.

I was a hit with the older ladies, because my dad had taught me how to foxtrot and waltz. In return, the women-of-a-certain-age instructed me in country steps like the polka, a countrified paso doblé and tango. Around 10 pm, the older folks would head for home, leaving the teens to dance until the wee hours.

The bals de campagne don’t exist anymore. Like the rest of the world, the French countryside changed. Greater access to transportation and growth of the media rewired rural residents’ tastes, and they sought out more citified entertainment. Besides, the bals had become expensive with the hiring of security guards to keep growing groups of ruffians in check. Slowly, but surely, the bals disappeared; and a centuries-old tradition died.

I saw an advertisement for a traditional bal de campagne in one of Paris’ suburbs the other day. Of course, it was a commercial copy. Nevertheless, it seems there’s still a nostalgic interest in holding a partner and swaying to the music of yesteryear. But it reminded me that today’s world is not the world of my youth. And one day, today’s teens will see their favorite things relegated to the dust bins of history. Mostly, I’m nostalgic for that romantic social time when a man courted a partner on the dance floor in his best, or perhaps suavest, persona to attract her attention.

I read, recently, that Rick Coonce passed away last year from heart failure, and a large part of me mourned not only his passing, but the passing of an era. And I thought to myself, start dancing before it’s too late and our hearts fail from the loss of things we loved. Who knows, perhaps the world would be more tolerant, compassionate, and peaceful if we danced together, arm-in-arm or cheek-to-cheek, swaying to the music? Rest in peace, Rick Coonce, and thanks for the good times.

Postscript: Rick Coonce's bandmate, Rob Grill, also passed away last year.